


Blood and Water, or What Makes a Family

by bitch_I_might_be



Series: Thin Ice 'Verse [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, George Washington is a Dad, Grief/Mourning, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John is there for a hot second and Washington instantly diagnoses him with gay, Like massive dad vibes in this one, Martha Washington is a sweetheart, Seizures, This takes place before all the other works in this series, fuck history I do what I want, it's prequel time baby, let this man rest, or: Alex does things that give his father heart-palpitations, past George Washington/Rachel Faucette, smol Alexander!!!, spoiler alert: it's Rachel, spoiler alert: it's not only Rachel, this is not as much a story as it is a collection of scenes oops, washington is tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitch_I_might_be/pseuds/bitch_I_might_be
Summary: George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, and the family they built, through the years.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & Martha Washington, George Washington/Martha Washington, John Parke Custis & George Washington, Martha "Patsy" Parke Custis & George Washington
Series: Thin Ice 'Verse [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004361
Comments: 31
Kudos: 94





	1. 1764-65

**Author's Note:**

> Helo :)  
> This is a quick little thing that wouldn't leave me, so here we are!  
> I just want to say that I'm having tremendous fun writing younger Washington, he's such a dude, I love that man.  
> Also, I didn't do a crumb of research for any of this, so please don't hate me if I get something wrong. I'm european and I don't know jack shit about US history, lol. But, well, this is a Hamilton fanfiction about Hamilton being Washington's biological son, so I guess it's whatever anyway, we're all just here to have a good time :)

The first time he laid eyes on the boy was a few months after Rachel’s death.

He would have come sooner if he could have, but war was unpredictable, and George just hadn’t been in the position to abandon his post, his men, not even when that letter arrived one fateful morning.

 _You have a son and I am dying,_ Rachel had said, and George had stared down at the parchment in his hand like an idiot, unable to make sense of the words. _Help him, I beg of you, help him._

He hadn’t wanted her to beg, he’d wanted her to _live._ For herself, for that boy, for her other son, and, selfishly, for his own sake – the colonies were ravaged by war, and there was no telling how long it would last, how long _he_ would last. What kind of man would he be if he brought an innocent child into that?

It seemed he didn’t have a choice, because only a few days after that letter arrived, before he could even gather his thoughts enough to write home to his wife, another letter found him. He didn’t recognise the name on it, but it didn’t matter, because it carried the news of Rachel’s death. By the time he had first held her letter in hands, he thought through his grief, she had probably already been dead and gone for weeks.

That left two boys without their mother. And one of them was his.

Alexander.

He wrote back to the person who had informed him of Rachel’s passing that he would come and get the child as soon as war permitted.

That turned out to be two months later, in July, when the sweltering heat kept him from sleep even more than the echoes of cannonfire in his own head did. He spent those nights he lay awake thinking–thinking and guilting and praying and _asking,_ asking questions he would never get answers to.

Why hadn’t she told him? Why on her deathbed, why not before? She had raised his child for eight years, on her own if his first impression of her useless husband hadn’t misled him.

What had she been _thinking_? What had _he_ been thinking? Had he even thought at all?

No. Probably not. He had been young.

They had been friends, first and foremost; George should have left that night, when they had talked and drank, but her lips on his had tasted sweeter than the wine- 

He had known she was married. He should have left.

And now there was a boy on Nevis who was all on his own because of George's lack of impulse-control.

The first time he laid eyes on the boy, on his boy, Alexander, was a few months after Rachel’s death.

He looked… haunted. Haunted in a way George recognised, haunted in a way that stared back at him from the mirror when he jerked awake at night, drenched in sweat and tears.

Alexander just looked at him and didn’t speak, which was fair, he thought. George intimidated grown men, and Alexander was just a small boy. A small boy who had lost his mother and, by George’s observations, was made to feel like a burden by the people who took him in.

The man had been Rachel’s landlord, and he explained to him, after he had snapped at the boy to go get his belongings–not asked, _snapped_ at Alexander, at _his son_ –that Rachel had begged and pleaded with him to look after her son after she was gone, until his father came to get him.

He hadn’t actually expected someone to show up and claim the boy, he went on to say, but he wasn’t about to deny a dying woman her last wish. _The boy is quite a handful and, well, if given the choice...,_ he said with a twist to his mouth like George was supposed to find that funny, and he responded, _Good thing my wife and I have four hands between us, then._

That shut him up.

Alexander came back with a small pack dangling from his shoulder, and- that was all he owned, wasn’t it? The guilt pulled at him, poked at his raw heart. If he had known about him, if Rachel had just told him-

It was no use now. She was gone, but their son was still there, and George would give him anything he could ask for, he would make up for the eight years of absence. They would make this work.

He slipped the man a pouch of coins; George might have thought him insufferable and entirely incapable of caring for Alexander, but he had still taken him in and kept him fed. Lord knew what could have happened if the boy had been thrown out onto the streets.

Alexander watched his feet as they walked, and George… felt out of his depth. How could he approach him without scaring him? He was so quiet and he seemed so tired, more tired than any eight year old should be.

It wasn’t even like it was new territory for him, George was a father, had been for years, but interacting with Jacky and Patsy was so _easy;_ he didn’t have to come up with a plan of attack first, didn’t have to worry about saying something wrong. But something about addressing Alexander terrified him.

Probably because he had given the boy all the reasons to resent him. What kind of father just left his own child without ever looking back? How could he explain to Alexander that he hadn't done it on purpose? That if he had _known-_

"Maman talked about you," Alexander said. It was the first thing he said to him, and they had been in each other's company for a couple of hours now, had already boarded the ship that would take them back to the colonies.

George startled. The boy spoke quietly, with a subtle rasp to his voice that made George want to offer him water, and he didn't look at him.

"Yes?" he said, wary. At least Rachel hadn't put him up to this completely unprepared.

"She said you are a soldier."

"I am." Jacky liked to ask for war-stories, when Martha wasn't around to scold him for it, and George never really quite knew what to say. He wasn't about to tell a young boy about what he had seen, what they had endured, and he hoped Alexander wouldn't inquire about it.

"So you'll die. Like her."

A slap to the face would have caught George less off guard. The boy was _eight._ He shouldn’t be thinking like that, like everyone he knew would leave him, he shouldn’t have to worry about that. He also shouldn’t go around and tell people that they would die a most likely gruesome death, but one thing after the other.

“Alexander,” he said, a gentle scolding. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“The truth rarely is,” he replied, eyes glued to his own fidgeting hands, clasped loosely in his lap.

George’s brows inched up his forehead as he watched the boy; he was clever. Quick-witted. Cynical in a way no child should be. But unsure, insecure, not comfortable enough to meet his eye.

“Well, you are right about one thing: soldiers die, sometimes. But even if I did,” he sure hoped he didn’t. Martha had already lost a husband, the children a father, and he wouldn’t put them through that again if he could help it. “you wouldn’t be alone like you were until now. You would have my wife, the children–you won’t be on your own again, Alexander, no matter what happens to me.”

“Why would they care? I’m just your bastard. It would be the smart thing to do to cast me out upon your death.”

Good Lord, that poor child.

George ignored the sharp pang of guilt and the crack of his heart in his chest and reached out, put a curled finger underneath Alexander’s chin and lifted so he could look him in the eyes. The boy flinched at the contact, and a spark of fear flitted through his dark eyes. 

God help him if he found just a single bruise on him.

He pushed that thought aside, careful not to let any of the anger shine through–Alexander would without a doubt assume it was directed at him, and George wouldn’t give him a reason to be scared of him.

“Bastard or not,” he said and offered a small smile. “You are still my son, love.” Alexander gave him an odd look as he let the term of endearment slip; force of habit, he supposed. He always addressed Jacky and Patsy like that.

“You are family, and family sticks together, no matter what.”

Alexander blinked and averted his gaze. “Things must be different in the colonies, then,” he said, and George let his hand drop away.

It was odd–he’d had two months to get used to the idea of Alexander, to prepare himself for the challenges taking him in would bring, and yet, he was lost. Lost on what to do, what to say to him to make him _see._ This was a child who had lost everything, everyone he had cared about and who had cared for him in turn, and he was jaded, and tired, and devastated.

It would be difficult. The realisation hit him suddenly, but he was surprised to find it did nothing but harden his resolve. He had known Alexander for but a few hours, had known _of_ Alexander for just over two months, but George was overwhelmed with affection for that cynical, brazen, scared little boy. He wouldn’t let another bad thing happen to him.

Alexander was his son, his blood, and George had been a poor excuse of a father since the boy’s entrance into the world, but he was there now, and he would give him a family, a home–and, he swore to himself, he would give him his smile back.

* * *

By the time they reached Virginia, Alexander had stopped flinching at George’s touch. It seemed like a small thing, but George was irrationally proud of that development–he could lay a hand on his shoulder and Alex would just turn to look at him, not jump, and he could brush some wayward curls from his forehead in an attempt to fix his perpetually messy hair, and Alex would just huff in annoyance but let him be.

It had been a little over a month. A little over a month, and George was head over heels for that boy.

He had a surprisingly dry sense of humour for someone that young, George learned, and he liked to read, liked to learn, to ask questions, and boy, did he like to _talk._

George wouldn’t have thought it possible when he first met Alexander, but he talked a lot, about everything, the view, the people, random thoughts, what he was reading; and George loved it. He could listen to his son’s, in the beginning so small, voice swell with excitement and elation all day. He did, sometimes.

Alex stared out of the coach-window as they rattled on down increasingly familiar pathways, and George watched the scenery pass over that unruly mop of hair. The gentle slopes of the green, rolling hills of Virginia gave him some peace of mind; how often during his months at war had he wished to step outside his tent and see them, instead of a muddy military-camp filled with downtrodden, hungry men, ravaged by war and disease that came with living in such close quarter.

“It’s… nice,” he said, and George smiled and ruffled his hair.

“I’m glad you think so, dearheart,” he said and smiled even brighter when Alexander showed no negative reaction at the pet-name, didn’t give him a look that told him how odd he thought George. They really were getting somewhere.

* * *

As soon as George had paid the coachman and the carriage had driven off, the front-door burst open and two small figures rushed out to meet them. 

Patsy threw herself at him with an excited squeal of “Papa!” and George caught her and lifted her up, pressed kisses all over her face until she dissolved into giggles.

“Hello there, my angel, I’m very pleased to see you, too,” he said and set her down, making sure she stood firm on both feet before he let go. His darling girl suffered from bouts of illness that weakened her often, but she looked lively, if a little pale, strands of dark hair coming loose from the braid Martha had put it into.

He turned to Jacky who stood next to his sister in a much more orderly fashion–two years her senior, and _Christ,_ their boy was already ten–and nodded to him.

“Mister Custis,” he said.

Jacky nodded back. “Colonel Washington.”

A beat of silence passed between them, and then a bright smile broke out over Jacky’s face and he rushed at him, barreling into him much like Patsy, but he had grown too big for George to pick up by now.

“I missed you, Pa,” he said, muffled into George’s chest, and George ruffled a hand through his hair and kissed the top of his head.

“I missed you too, love. Both of you. Well, all three of you,” he said and took his boy by the shoulders and pried him away so that he might look at him. “Look at you, you’ve grown so big while I was gone.” He squeezed Jacky’s shoulder and pinched Patsy’s cheek, earning him another sound of pure delight from her. 

God, he had missed them so much. The better part of a year had passed since he’d last seen them–but the guilt about missing huge chunks of their childhoods could never rival what he felt at missing the first eight years of Alexander’s life.

“Your mother is feeding you right, then?” he said, just as he spotted his wife come up behind the children. She gave him a look and put a hand to the kid’s shoulders.

“Of course I am,” she said, mock indignant, and stepped around the children, straight into his arms.

Martha wrapped her arms around his back and held on tightly, just as George did. He buried his nose in her hair, breathed her in, relished the warmth of her slender body against his, her gentle hands against his back, her sweet breath tickling his neck.

“I cannot put into words how fiercely I have missed you, my dear,” he said in a low voice, just for her ears.

Martha pulled away, her eyes wet with unshed tears, and leaned up to kiss him. The kids made some noises of complaint, as was to be expected, but George paid them no heed–he was back home, back with his family, and he would enjoy kissing his wife all he wanted.

“I believe you brought us someone,” she said when they had separated and peered past George’s shoulder. He turned just in time to see Alexander take a nervous step back; he was skittish, like a cornered animal, but that was all right. The boy had been through a lot, and he had just barely gotten used to George.

“It’s quite all right, Alexander,” he said, softly, and stretched his hand out to him. Alex just looked at it, hesitated for a moment, and took his hand, let George pull him closer.

He moved Alexander in front of him and settled both his hands on his shoulders, as much to give comfort as to stop him from bolting.

“This is my wife, Martha,” he said, and Martha leaned down until she could look Alexander in the eyes, gave him a soft smile.

“Hello, Alexander. It’s nice to meet you,” she said.

Alex stayed silent for a beat, and George squeezed his shoulders with gentle pressure, hoping to encourage him. 

“It’s my pleasure, Ma’am,” he said at last, and George raised his brows as Martha looked up at him with quiet amusement in her eyes.

“Please, just Martha is fine, or whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I’m comfortable with ‘Ma’am’,” he said. Martha chuckled, and George smiled back at her. His dear wife could be just as stubborn as he could, and he had no doubt she would get her way with that in the end.

He nudged Alex a bit to the left. “And these two here are-”

“Your children,” Alex said, an odd flatness to his voice.

“Yes,” he said, because they were in all but blood and name. “Your siblings. Also, don’t interrupt, it’s not polite.”

The boy made a vague sound of comprehension but didn’t respond further.

Jacky looked Alexander up and down, as though he was assessing him to standards only known to himself, and Alex squirmed beneath George’s hands under the scrutiny.

The first to act was Patsy, and he could have kissed her for it, because the silence had been bordering on uncomfortable.

“I’m Patsy,” she said. “You’re Alexander. Mama said you would come to live with us. You are from an island, right?”

“Yes,” he said, but it didn’t sound very convinced. Patsy could be a little whirlwind at times, running her mouth faster than one could listen, and George had observed over the past month that Alex was most at ease in conversations when he knew where they were going–he wouldn’t have that here, and George couldn’t help but worry a little.

“Well, we don’t have an ocean here. We do have a river! I can show you, and you can tell me how it compares!” she said, almost bouncing on the spot in her excitement, and grabbed both Alex and Jacky by the hand.

Off they were, neither of them even with a chance to protest.

“Huh,” George said and curled an arm around Martha’s waist as they watched their little girl bully the boys into compliance. “That could have gone a lot worse.”

“I think we are off to quite a good start,” she said and smiled up at him. “And I absolutely will get that boy to stop calling me ‘Ma’am’.”

He chuckled and kissed his wonderful wife’s cheek, musing to himself that that was where Patsy had gotten it from.

* * *

The first time Alexander referred to George as his father was something he was unlikely to ever forget–mostly because he had almost suffered a heart-attack from it.

It was an unusually warm spring day, and George and Martha were out on the back-porch, just talking and enjoying each other like they rarely got to do these days, between the children, the plantation, the war.

Jacky was inside, busy with a book; George knew because he had passed him on his way out, so one of three kids was accounted for. Patsy and Alex had disappeared in the direction of the river not too long past, and Martha had called after them to be careful, as she always did, and they hadn’t really thought much else about it since.

That was, until a sudden yell of “Papa!” sounded from the banks of the river, loud and grating like only kids could scream, and he shared an alarmed look with Martha before he bounded down the porch-steps and across the lawn to the river, because Christ, what if one of them had fallen in? The Potomac had been tranquil the past few days, the current not all that strong, but they were _children,_ and Patsy had the tendency to fall unconscious after a shock–like cold water–due to her illness, and Lord, could Alex even swim? He had never thought to ask, but he was from an island, so-

He rounded a patch of tall reed and jerked to a stop. There they were, both his children, dry and with beaming smiles on their faces, kneeling at a small enclosure of water fed by the river, not deep by what he could tell, more like a puddle, really.

Alex spotted him from the corner of his eye and turned to him and shot him possibly the biggest smile George had ever seen on him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Pa, look!” he said and pointed to the puddle.

George rubbed a hand down his face. The elation he felt at having earned that title from Alex at last was overshadowed by the rapid thumping of his heart–they would have to have a conversation about not screaming like someone was dying when no one was, in fact, dying, as soon as they got back inside.

He dropped his hand back to his side, took a deep breath and joined the children at their puddle.

A swarm of small, black spots danced beneath the surface with the unrivaled activity of an agitated anthill–tadpoles. They had found tadpoles.

George took another long breath and felt his heart slow back down to a healthy speed. Good Lord.

Tadpoles.

The kids turned to him, an excited shine to their eyes, and George smiled down at them, despite still having half a mind to scold them. 

“Tadpoles,” he said, because that was the only word running through his head. “Delightful.”

“They will be frogs one day, right?” Patsy said. “How does that work?”

“They grow,” Alex responded, with a certainty that was impressive for the simple nature of his answer.

Patsy frowned at him. “They look nothing like frogs, though.”

“They will.”

“But _how_?”

“I think I have a book on that,” George said and drew their attention before the bickering could escalate. “How about we go back inside and I look for it?”

They jumped back to their feet in lieu of an answer, and Alex skipped past him and led the way while Patsy took his hand and pulled him along.

They met Martha halfway back to the house–they had taken too long, and she had gotten worried.

“What was this all about, then?” she asked with a stern frown that was supposed to mask the worry, George knew, her hands on her hips. The kids picked up on neither emotion.

“We found tadpoles!”

“Papa said he has a book on them!”

George just shrugged, helpless, and Martha shook her head and chuckled.

“All right, let’s go back inside.”

George spent the rest of that afternoon on a sofa in his study, Patsy on his lap and Alex at his side while they worked their way through an illustrated book about the biologies of frogs and toads.

Jacky came in once just to give them a puzzled look and leave again.

It was only that night, when the kids were asleep and Martha and him got ready to retire for the night, that the smile spread over his features and he could barely contain his mirth.

“Well, you are unusually giddy considering the lateness of the hour,” Martha said, stepped close to him with a soft smile and wound her arms around his back. George in turn settled his hands around her waist and leaned down to kiss her, for no other reason than she was _there_ and he could.

“Alex called me ‘Pa’ today,” he said.

Martha’s smile came quick and beautiful. “I knew it was only a matter of time until he got comfortable with us.”

“I know,” George said and chuckled quietly, pressed another kiss to her lips. “You’re always right, my dear.”

“Not always,” she said and trailed a hand up and down his spine. “Just usually.”

“Of course.”

He grinned at her, and before she had a chance to realise what he was doing, he stooped and swept her up into his arms.

“George!” she yelped in mock outrage as she scrambled for purchase around his shoulders with one hand, the other swatting at his chest in warning.

“Time for bed,” he said.

“You better not drop me!”

George smiled, more genuine than the wolfish grin from before, and kissed her cheek. “I wouldn’t dream of it, dear.”

* * *

The first time Alexander referred to Martha as his mother, George hadn’t been near enough to hear it.

Alex had fallen asleep on one of the sofas in his study as George went over the finances–he had only noticed when the book the boy had been reading hit the floor with a dull thud, but he had just let him be. He was a growing boy, he needed his sleep.

Martha came in, and George flashed her a smile and went back to what he was doing, but he could watch the proceedings from the corner of his eye. She picked up the book and placed it on the low table next to the sofa.

Then, she stroked a hand through Alexander’s messy mop of hair, down and along his shoulders, gently trying to rouse him, but Alex just curled into himself and mumbled something, half-asleep as he was. That was when Martha whipped her head around to look at him, a blinding smile on her lips and tears in her eyes, and George knew.

Both of them had gained another son.


	2. 1768-73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Chapter two! There's some cute sibling shenanigans in this, mostly because that will be the last chance at something happy we will have with this, oops.  
> It's not going to get too dark, though, just some worried/conflicted Washington and Alex whose agenda is just wreaking havoc wherever he treads :)
> 
> Uhh, one last note: I genuinely don't know if I should put an archive warning for major character death, as I would argue the main character here is Washington, but..... a word of warning: Martha Washington outlived all her children, do with that as you will :)

Alexander had nightmares. George knew this, but he hadn’t forced a conversation he didn’t want on the boy; Alex would come to him when he was ready. He knew from experience–his own nightmares–that pressing such a delicate matter would do more bad than good, and his son… he was a troubled child.

He learned to trust them and settled into their family seamlessly, like there had been an empty space that had just waited for him to fill it, and he had shed his air of quiet and insecurity to reveal a fiery and spirited personality underneath that reminded George so much of Rachel.

And yet, despite all the progress they’d made, Alexander shied away from seeking either him or Martha out when he needed help.

The nightmares were the aspect of that whole thing that worried him most. It pained him to think of his sweet boy left to fight his demons alone in the dark when they were _right there._ Patsy and Jacky had never hesitated to come to them at night when they were younger–those times had passed, George thought, a little wistful. 

It was different with Alex, though. He was twelve now, too old to run to his parents after a nightmare, some would say, but the poor boy had been through so much; a lot of it still remained a mystery to George, and he just wanted to be there for him, like he hadn’t been when Alex had needed him most.

So, when he passed Alexander’s room in the middle of the night as George wandered the dark corridors of their home in search of a short reprieve from the ghosts that haunted him, and he heard him crying–what kind of father would he be if he just walked away from him?

He sighed and pushed the door open without knocking as to not give Alex a chance to right himself and pretend he was fine, as he had caught him doing before.

His boy snapped his head up from where it had rested on his bent knees, pulled close to his chest, the tear-tracks glistening faintly in the silver light of the full moon. Nights with a full moon always troubled George the most, seemed to increase the dull throb of the empty space in his chest tenfold, made the screams impossible to ignore and the bloody faces sharp and clear before his mind’s eye. He hoped Alex wasn’t developing a similar affliction.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said, quiet and raspy and _heartfelt,_ as though he really thought he had done something wrong. He still apologised too often. It had lessened during the last four years, but it was a habit that still reared its ugly head from time to time, and George hated to imagine why the boy felt the need to apologise just for existing, just for taking up space.

He crossed the room and got settled next to his son where he sat, back pressed up flat against the headboard, and wiped away his silvery tears.

“You have nothing to apologise for, my heart,” he said, keeping his voice soft and low so as to not startle him.

“I’m weak,” Alex said and turned his head away from George’s hands on his face. He wrapped an arm around his boy’s shoulders instead and pressed a kiss to his hair.

“There’s nothing weak about crying. I do it all the time.”

Alexander glanced at him from the corner of his eye without turning his head, but he could still see the surprise at that admission reflected on his face, made pale by the eerie moonlight.

“Do you want to talk about why you are so upset, Alexander?”

He shook his head and bit down on his lower lip–he had seen him do that from time to time, and George was not enthused by that new habit.

“You’ve… you’ve never hurt me, Papa,” he said only a moment later, still not looking at him, and George frowned, pulled him a little closer.

“I would hope not, dearheart.”

“But why? I mean-” he swallowed and turned to face him at last, his eyes glazed over with tears once again. “Is that not… what fathers are supposed to do? Jemmy’s father always hurt us, when we did something wrong, or when he felt like it, I guess, and he wasn’t nice to Maman either, so-”

“Alexander,” he choked out, all the air suddenly knocked out of him, the shattered pieces of his heart dropped down into his stomach and his eyes hot with his own tears. “Alexander, no. Oh, my darling boy, my sweet, that’s not- no one has the right to hurt you, my love. No one, do you hear me?”

He drew Alex close to his chest and wrapped both his arms around him as tight as he dared; they sat together like that for a long time, Alexander’s small form trembling in his embrace as he sobbed quietly into his chest, quiet even now, like he was afraid to make a sound lest he be punished for showing some kind of weakness, and it took everything in George not to break down with him.

If he ever were to come face to face with James Hamilton, he would shoot him on sight.

 _No one_ laid a hand on any of his children and lived to tell the tale.

He rocked Alex back and forth gently and rubbed slow circles into his back, concentrated his efforts on shushing him and pushed those thoughts away to be dealt with later.

Alex calmed and carefully pulled away from him, his eyes puffy and face red and blotchy, and hiccuped a last sob before he attempted to take a deep breath and almost choked on it.

That wouldn’t do, George thought, as he watched his son struggle for breath.

“Count with me, Alexander,” he said and took the boy’s hand, pressed it to his own chest so he could feel the steady rise and fall of it.

Alex looked at him like he had lost his marbles when he started a slow count to ten and from ten back to one, but he did join in the second time around, and his breathing had evened out when they reached the third repeat.

His boy opened his mouth to say something, but the soft creak of a door halted him.

“Papa?” Patsy said, standing in the doorway in her nightgown and with her hair down, and looked from him to Alex, who shrunk back and didn’t meet her eye, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I heard you talking, is everything all right?”

“Alexander had a nightmare, love,” he said and rubbed a hand down his back. The poor boy had tensed right back up, and George didn’t have much hope that he would get him to relax again.

“Oh,” she said, barely more than a breath. She padded over to the bed, climbed up on Alex’s other side and gave him a gentle nudge with her shoulder. “I could stay with you if you’re scared.”

Alex snapped his head up to meet her gaze. “I- really?”

She nodded with vigour and flashed a smile so bright it dimpled her cheeks. “I can stay, right, Papa?”

George blinked and cleared his throat; it had constricted all of a sudden, the telltale prick of tears back in his eyes.

His little girl. Always so sweet, so caring–she was such a gentle soul. George could hardly believe his luck when it came to his family; considering the things he’d done, he didn’t know how he deserved any of them.

“If you two can promise me you’re going to sleep straight away,” he said, and they grinned at each other and nodded. Thick as thieves, those two, he thought, as a fond warmth took over the squeezing void in his chest.

“All right,” he said and rose to his feet once more, straightened out his clothes and watched as Patsy burrowed her way under the covers next to Alex. “Then, good night. Again.”

He kissed both their foreheads, tousled Alex’s hair and made his way out of the room. George closed the door behind him and took a deep breath, only to startle when the shadows across the hall moved.

“Is the whole goddamn house awake?” Jacky said, arms crossed and shoulder against the doorframe, and George forced himself to relax. His son. Nothing was amiss.

“Seems like it,” he said with a thin smile. “Alex had a bit of a hard time tonight, but it’s fine now. Go back to bed, my love.” He crossed the hallway and pressed a kiss to his forehead as well, ignoring his embarrassed grumbling about being too old for that as he did.

Teenagers, he thought with a slight quirk to his lips as he made for their own bedroom. He couldn’t wait to have two more of those around.

* * *

It had started off as a normal morning, and George hadn’t expected anything all too eventful to take place, but that had been his mistake.

He helped Martha clear the table after breakfast, the children already off in their own corners of the house, when Alex yelled from the sitting room.

“Ma! Pa! It’s Patsy!”

Martha dropped a plate and ran, and George was just a breath behind her, shards of broken ceramic crunching beneath his boots as they made for the sitting room.

Patsy was on the floor, limbs flailing–a seizure, always those fucking seizures–and Alex knelt next to her, attempting to hold his tears back as he tried to keep a hand between his sister’s head and the wooden floorboards.

George nudged the boy to the side and gathered his trashing daughter up into his arms, put her down on one of the sofas instead and gripped her arms as gently as he could to keep her from moving too much, to keep her from hurting herself.

“Shh, it’s all right, love, you’re all right,” he cooed as the spasms ceased and her muscles went slack under his palms. She lay still once more, pale and sweaty, her breaths heaving. 

He stroked her hair from her face as she came to and kissed her forehead, and she smiled up at him, weak and wobbly but so genuine it broke George’s heart–because his poor girl had just suffered through another of those horrible episodes that he knew pained her every time, and there she was, smiling at him bright and warm like the sun.

“I hope I didn’t frighten Lexi,” she said, and George just shook his head and looked over at his wife, who returned his gaze from red-rimmed eyes and clutched Alexander to her chest like he was her lifeline. 

“You gave all of us quite a fright, my angel,” he said and stroked the back of his fingers along the curve of her cheek.

She frowned and pouted a little, like she did when she tried to make him laugh. “Sorry, Papa. I’ll try not to do it again.”

Martha made a sound that was caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and George felt that in his soul.

* * *

George was on the way to his study, minding his own business, as usual, when he walked past the sitting room and had to stop and backtrack for the voices he heard from within.

“You’re a lost cause, Alex.” That was his daughter, a pleasant hum of amusement to her voice–she sounded so grown up sometimes, which honestly shouldn’t come as a surprise to him. She was fifteen, by all means almost a grown woman, even though George didn’t like to think about it. It seemed to him he had blinked once and all of a sudden all his children were practically adults.

“Maybe you are just a lousy teacher,” Alex replied, and Lord, his voice had almost fully settled into that lower register now, only cracking from time to time.

George arrived back at the archway that led into the sitting room and observed with raised brows. Alex clasped Patsy’s hand in one of his own, bigger than hers now, and the other was at her waist while Patsy gripped his shoulder. 

It seemed they were attempting a waltz. Or… something like that.

“I’m a great teacher. Maybe you are just a horrible student,” she said and raised her chin haughtily, took a sudden step backwards and then to the side and made Alex stumble after her.

“Maybe both of you are just ridiculous,” a third voice chimed in, and George spotted Jacky in one of the armchairs, sneaking glances at his siblings over the rim of a book he was most certainly not reading.

They paid him no mind, and Alex stared down at his feet with furrowed brows while Patsy continued to drag him along in what George was now fairly sure _was_ supposed to be a waltz.

“I have decided I do not like dancing,” he said, dryly, to his own feet.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she responded and seemed to tighten her grip on his hand, if the grimace Alex pulled was anything to go by. “You need to know how to dance. Women like men who dance, you will never find a wife if you can’t.”

“Oh, no,” he said, voice flat. “Whatever shall I do?”

Jacky snorted and turned a page in the book he still wasn’t reading, and Patsy shot him an annoyed glance over her shoulder.

“You need a wife, you’re useless on your own, Hamilton,” she said.

“Wow, all right, _ouch_?”

“She’s right, Lexi, if you can’t even master a waltz-”

“I know where you sleep, Custis,” he said and craned his neck to glare at Jacky while Patsy attempted to lead him through a twirl.

“ _But,_ ” Jacky went on as though his brother hadn’t just thrown an ominous threat his way. “luckily for you, you don’t necessarily need to be a skilled dancer to woo a lady. Take me, for example, I charmed Eleanor with my rugged good looks and shining personality.”

Patsy made a gagging noise and Alex hummed a sarcastic sound of agreement.

George grinned and shook his head. Jacky was convinced he would marry that girl some day–it was kind of sweet, if not a little overzealous.

“I’ll marry her and then we’ll see who’s laughing,” he finished and turned another page. He was really committed to that act, apparently.

“You can’t marry anyone. You are seventeen,” Patsy said. She stepped forward and to the side, and Alex went along, more smoothly than before.

“I will marry her when I’m of age.”

“Good God, Jacky, what’s the hurry?” she asked and smiled up at Alex. He was getting the hang of it now, not following her movements but matching them.

“No, he’s right,” Alex said and grinned right back. “Better marry her quick before she realises how much better she can do.”

“Well, aren’t you just hilarious today,” Jacky grumbled and raised the book higher. Patsy giggled as Alex chuckled, and George turned away with a smile on his face and continued on down the corridor, his heart so full he felt his chest might burst apart.

* * *

Jacky had left for college, and George couldn’t put into words how proud he was.

It was hard, of course, especially on Martha–their boy was off to New York, so far from home, but he was a young man making his way out into the world, and George would support him in his decisions as any father ought to.

That left them with Alex and Patsy, both sixteen now. And Patsy… she gave him many a sleepless night on top of his usual ones.

Martha and him could do nothing but watch their daughter’s state deteriorate. Her illness was only getting worse, the seizures and bouts of unconsciousness more and more frequent. They had tried everything there was, everything the many physicians they had consulted with suggested–to no avail. None of the remedies worked, and most only took an additional toll on Patsy.

Her health was dwindling, but she kept her spirits high–his sweet girl, always looking to the bright side.

Alexander rarely left her side and kept her company when she was on bedrest, and George knew it meant a lot to her. They were the best of friends, after all, since the day he had brought Alex home with him, and both Martha and him were beyond glad they had each other in such a difficult time.

“You know,” George overheard her say to Alex one day. “I’m really glad you are my brother. I think life would have been frightfully boring without you around.”

It was a heartwarming sentiment, no doubt, but it had sounded too much like a goodbye for George’s taste.

That night, as he lay awake, was one of the rare occasions he found himself praying outside of the trenches and off the battlefield.

* * *

On June nineteenth 1773, their sweet, innocent girl suffered the last of her episodes. She was just seventeen years old at the time of her passing.


	3. June 19th 1773

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I added another chapter but I can explain: I didn't want the aftermath of Patsy's death with the rest of the "plot", so I wrote a short little interlude for it :)
> 
> There are no names in this because I am pretentious. I admit it!!!
> 
> Also I made myself tear up a little as I wrote this, which is odd because I haven't felt an emotion since like 2009

The sound his wife made when their daughter's hand went slack in hers would torment him for the rest of his miserable days.

* * *

His son stared back at him, dark eyes pale in a white face, as though their colour had drained away through the cracks of his broken heart.

_ No, _ he said, again and again and again, and stumbled to his feet, made to brush past him, but he couldn’t let him go, he couldn’t, because he might have been a horrible, useless excuse of a father who hadn’t been able to protect his own daughter, but he wouldn’t let his boy  _ see. _

His sister was gone. There was nothing there for him to see, nothing but an empty vessel, a frame without a picture, a vase without the flowers, nothing but pitch darkness and freezing cold.

A person’s face changed when the soul left. He couldn't let him see.

His son struggled against him, fought to get free, but he was just a boy, all gangly limbs and sharp elbows, no real weight behind his punches yet.

_ You’re wrong you’re lying it’s not true this can’t be it- _

He held his boy tight and he sagged against him, the fight drained from him like the colour from his eyes. He crumbled apart against his chest, a heap of sobs that sounded like screams, and hot tears, and warm, labored breaths, and fingers that dug into his back until it hurt – his son was alive, painfully alive, blessedly, devastatingly  _ alive. _

The only thing that kept him from losing himself to the agony, from giving in to the call of the void, was the burning hot determination that he would keep it that way.

* * *

_ It’s just not fair, _ his son said into his own hands, followed by a choked noise that sounded like it hurt him.

No, it wasn’t. Because his daughter was dead. His wife had lost her only girl, the boys their sister, the world a little light.

She had been so gentle, so caring and considerate, smart as a whip and quick to laugh, and she had been  _ seventeen.  _ She hadn’t deserved a short life marked by hardship and pain, she had deserved to live and be happy, she had never done anything wrong, she had been nothing like him, nothing like her father, the soldier, the murderer-

But his daughter was dead, and George was still there, left to contemplate what kind of God would punish a saint and let the sinner walk free.


	4. 1775-76

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy it's finally explained in this how exactly Alex came to work under his dad!! I'm just really excited about that because it has bugged me for a long time that I couldn't fit that in anywhere, lol. Even though it's probably quite obvious if one takes a look at Washington's motivations.
> 
> Tag yourself, I'm Alex hitting Washington with "Father" instead of "Pa" every time he wants him to know he's mad at him, we stan a petty king.

They stood in the fronthall together, George, Martha and Alexander. 

His chest was tight with emotion, and maybe he would shed a few tears later on, but right now, Alexander was overwhelmed enough with Martha, who clung to him and wept like this goodbye was forever.

He understood.

Their boy had grown into a handsome young man, which didn’t surprise George–he had that from Rachel, who had been beautiful inside and out, like he had so many of his good qualities.

Nineteen years old, an adult, some would say, even though he would never see him that way. He might be off to New York to go to school like Jacky had done, to find his own path, away from his parents, but Alexander would always be his sweet boy.

Martha took his face into her hands and stared up at him from teary eyes–dear God, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes, when had that happened?–and Alexander flashed her a careful smile and glanced past her at George, a silent plea for help in his gaze. George just grinned back at him and shrugged.

“You will write home, yes, love?” she said, and Alex nodded dutifully.

“Of course.”

“You’ll write to me _every week,_ do you understand? I’ll be worried sick if I don’t hear from you.”

“Every week,” he repeated and covered her hands on his cheeks with his, lowered them carefully but didn’t let go.

Martha looked at their clasped hands and sniffled. “Promise me.”

“I promise, Ma,” he said and gave her another smile, one that he had just recently grown into and one George was sure would break many hearts.

She pulled her hands from his and hugged him again instead, and Alex rolled his eyes with good humour–but they were a little red, a bit more shiny than usual, and his smile became strained.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” she said, because they all knew he absolutely would. “Take breaks. Make some friends. Have fun. Not too much, though.”

Alexander chuckled and wiped a quick hand over his eyes before she pulled away and stepped back. George pretended he hadn’t seen.

“Come here, Alex,” he said and stretched an arm out to him, and his son stepped into the offered embrace without hesitation. He just held on for a while; the goodbye wasn’t forever, he reminded himself, but an irrational part of him muttered _what if it was?_ somewhere in the back of his head. 

So much could happen. George never knew if he would make it home from his next deployment, and Alex would live in New York for years, enough time to make friends and build relationships, and good God, maybe even to _marry._

It could very well be that one of them wouldn’t come back home, and then it _would_ be goodbye forever.

Fuck.

“I'm so proud of you, dearheart,” he said and pushed the spiralling thoughts from the forefront of his mind. He could spiral later, when Alexander wasn’t right there to witness him fall apart.

“Thank you, Pa,” he said and backed up a bit, looked him in the eye. “For everything. This… could have turned out a lot different if you hadn’t come for me back on Nevis.”

George shook his head and tried to smile, but he didn’t seem to entirely succeed, as he caught his wife watching him with sad understanding when he glanced over at her.

“You’re my son. I told you, family sticks together.” He stroked his palm along Alex’s cheek–he would probably never get used to the rough scratch of stubble against his palm–and kissed his forehead.

“I didn’t believe you when you said that back then. I do now.” He shook himself, squeezed George’s hand on his face and lowered it gently, stepped away and spoke before he could say anything in return.

“Well, the coach is waiting. I have to go.” Alex looked from him to Martha, then down at the ground. “I- I’ll miss you.”

“We’ll miss you too, love,” Martha answered. She had stopped crying, but it was apparent by the roughness of her voice that she had been not long ago.

Alexander put a quick kiss to her cheek and picked up his pack, shot them a last dazzling smile, and was gone.

The door fell closed with a quiet click, and George and Martha turned to look at each other.

“Empty nest,” she said. “What do we do now?”

George reached out and took her hand, squeezed it softly. He desperately tried to avoid picturing the house empty except for her, how lonely she would be when the whispers of revolution brewing in Manhattan boiled over and set something off that would most certainly require his presence and drag him away from her.

“I suggest we have some tea and see where that takes us,” he said. It drew a chuckle from her, and he still thought it a beautiful sound, even after many long years of marriage.

“That seems like a good place to start,” she said and led him down the hallway.

* * *

Revolution, it turned out, was difficult.

George did his best, he swore he did, but sometimes it seemed to him he was the only one who put in any real effort. He knew that was nonsense, of course, he knew there were men as hard and far harder at work than him to ensure their success, but he was getting _frustrated._

The constant battles stretched him thin like he had never experienced before in any conflict–because the battles with the redcoats were far from the only ones he had to face.

The Continental Army was made up of volunteers, which was honourable, to be sure, but it also meant a lot of foot-soldiers were not trained for battle. It meant they deserted. It meant they retreated when they were supposed to attack, it meant they took orders more as friendly suggestions, it meant George suffered from a constant, pounding headache.

And congress wasn’t any better. He could write them a thousand letters containing the same message in different words, and it would still fall on deaf ears. George had half a mind to march down to Philadelphia himself and yell at all the fat, comfortable congressmen until the powder came out of their hair that an army needed _supplies._ An army marched on it’s stomach, men needed to be fed, they needed boots, uniforms, blankets for the harsh winters, and congress refused to give them any of it. Or worse, they agreed and still only gave them a fraction of what they required.

All of that was thoroughly discussed during the actual meeting part of the war-meeting he attended with several other high-ranking officers–the presence of which was useful, because he found he hadn’t actually met a few of them before, but he remedied that by the time they dropped most of the talk about strategy and began sharing stories over wine, or letting their frustration out in less professional terms.

“It truly is a challenge to come by good men these days,” Knox said, and Greene nodded along next to him. George thought about his own aides–bright young men, the lot of them, with great careers ahead. They worked long and hard hours, and yet it never seemed to be enough. He needed to employ more men, he knew, but Knox was right.

George didn’t ask just anyone to join his staff, he had to be sure they would get their work done and get it done well.

Greene sighed and took a sip of his wine. “I still think about that lad from a couple weeks back sometimes. He would have made a decent addition, I dare say.”

“The one that turned both of us away? I think of him as well, but mainly because I admire his audacity.”

George raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “You tried to hire the same man and he refused both of you?”

“Can you believe it?” Knox said in a way of answer.

“An… interesting move, indeed,” George said. “If perhaps not the most strategically sound.”

“You should make him an offer, Washington, maybe he’ll have a harder time refusing you. The boy got some men together and robbed the british battery, stole a bunch of cannons,” Greene said, tapping his fingers on the table.

Well, that just sounded downright suicidal. “Another strategically very unsound move. Was it that recklessness that inspired both of you to invite him to your staff?”

“It was more what he did after,” Greene answered. Knox grumbled a vague sound of agreement into his wine. “He figured out how to use them, how to calculate the trajectory. By _reading._ An impressive feat, if you ask me.” He turned to Knox. “What was his name? Hamilton?”

George almost choked on his own spit and mentally chided himself for the undignified reaction a moment later. Hamilton was a common name. Scottish. Lots of scots around these parts.

“Mh. Captain Hamilton, I think it was,” Knox said.

“Yes. Hamilton. Captain Alexander Hamilton.”

George went very, very still.

His heartbeat was deceivingly slow, but his lungs refused to take in any air, and he curled his fingers around the edge of the table in case his hands would begin to shake.

Common names. Very common names. It wouldn’t surprise him if there was more than one Alexander Hamilton in New York.

Still. He had to be sure.

“Dark hair, dark eyes, shorter than most men but carries himself like he isn’t?” he asked, most of it punched out of him in one breath.

“Oh, you’ve met him?” Greene asked with arched brows, and George’s stomach dropped.

That boy couldn’t be serious. How could he- Why _would_ he even, why would he want to, what on earth was he _thinking_?

Oh, God. His stomach lurched and churned, heart picking up speed, faster and faster until he thought it would explode- _his son had stolen cannons from the british._

He could have been dead, he _should_ have been dead, and- and if he had been–thank God, thank whoever was looking out for his idiot child that day that he wasn’t, that he was alive–if he had died, no one would have thought to contact George. No one knew of their relation, they would have thrown his boy into an unmarked grave and George and Martha would have had no idea what happened to him.

“Excuse me, Gentlemen,” he said and removed himself first from the table, then the room.

As soon as he got back to headquarters, he would have one of the boys write a little invitation to one Captain Alexander Hamilton, and if the boy knew what was good for him, which, in light of recent events, he did not, he would come to him.

If not, well. George had no issue with hunting him down himself to drag him back home by his ear.

* * *

The simmering anger extinguished itself the instant the tent-flaps fell closed behind Alexander. He had expected to rage, to shout and yell and discharge him from the army right then and there, but the quiet fury he had been harbouring since he first heard his name in that context went up in smoke.

Instead, he was left with an empty, squeezing feeling in his chest and the urge to cry.

George dismissed the boy–Burr?–who had been talking at him without another glance; all his focus was on his own boy.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” he said, standing at attention like George had never wanted him to, calling him ‘Sir’ as though that was what he was to him; his hands fidgeted at his sides, he noted. At least he had enough sense left to know he was in trouble.

George stayed silent for a long time. He really didn’t know what to say, now that the anger had passed and a lump had formed in his throat, because- because that was his _child,_ his sweet boy, in a blue military coat, barely even twenty yet.

He looked haggard, like he wasn’t eating enough, which George knew he wasn’t.

They were short on everything. They didn’t have enough men and not nearly enough supplies to keep the men they did have healthy, and now Alexander was in the middle of it.

The worst were his eyes, though. Alexander had killed. George could see it clear as day in them, the eyes he had inherited from him, and now there was the same permanent expression of haunted regret, of torn dedication in them as in his.

Lord, what had he done? What kind of father was he, to fashion his son into a _soldier,_ to raise him to think sacrificing himself would get him anywhere?

He prayed Rachel would forgive him for what he had done to their boy. 

“You will go back home, Alexander,” he said, after the pause had stretched on long enough to make the boy squirm on the spot.

The nervous energy dropped off him immediately. “I will do no such thing-”

“I’m your superior, _Captain Hamilton,_ and you’ll be happy to do as I tell you to,” he cut in, and all of a sudden his disappeared anger was back, with a vengeance.

The boy came in there, after lying to George, after lying to _Martha,_ after deceiving them into thinking he was doing as he was supposed to–going to school and getting his education, something neither of his parents ever had the opportunity to–and had the _audacity_ to talk back to him.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen: I will discharge you from the army. I will get you a coach back to Virginia. You will go without complaint and count yourself lucky that I didn’t put you over my knee like the insolent brat you insist on acting as.”

“Father-” he began, but George wouldn't hear his excuses.

“You stole cannons from the british, Alexander!” he shouted, and Alexander flinched. The mean satisfaction that warmed his blood made him sick to his stomach. “I cannot believe you would attempt something so stupid, so reckless- did you for even a second stop to think about me? About your poor mother? Are you this set on making us lose another child? Are you _trying_ to break your mother's heart again?”

Pure hurt flashed over his features before his expression went neutral, stonelike and impassive like that of a bust, and George would have regretted his words if his thoughts weren't clouded with whitehot anger. 

It was a low blow to throw Patsy’s too early death back into his face like that, but- but his Martha, his poor, wonderful wife, she wouldn't be able to take another loss of that calibre. _He_ wouldn't be able to take another loss like that.

"I don't care if I have to lay down my life for this revolution to succeed."

George shot up from his chair and strode across the tent, came to a stop in front of his idiot boy. Alex took half a step backwards on instinct, and the sane part of him screamed at George to stop–he wouldn't make his child afraid of him, like he had been afraid of James Hamilton.

"You will not die. Not if I have anything to say about it, which it just happens I have. You will _live,_ Alexander, and if I have to tie you up and give you an escort to make sure you get back to Virginia safe and sound."

Alex narrowed his eyes, and a part of George was glad he hadn't scared him whereas another wanted to smack him for not backing down and listening for once.

"I need to do this, Pa. I can make a name for myself in the army, I can make something of myself like this!" he shot back, voice not yet raised, but sounding like he was getting there–he better not yell at George, or he might reconsider putting him over his knee after all.

"I've been telling you for years, if you want a name so bad, you can just have mine!"

"I don't want your name!"

It wasn't the first time Alexander had declined his offer to legitimise him, but somehow this was the one that hurt the most. It was like he had taken a blow directly to his heart, what he imagined it to feel like to have his chest pried open by a bayonet.

Alexander's tense shoulders sagged in the deafening silence that followed, and his strained fists relaxed at his sides.

"I- you know I don't mean it like that, Pa," he said, quietened, bashful. "I just want to be my own person, and as your son… I would just be that. Your son. No matter what I do, good or bad, it would reflect back on you, but… I'm not you, Pa. I'm not an extension of you. That's all people would see me as."

Goddamn it all, George knew he was right; that didn't make it any easier to accept it as truth, though.

He saw it all the time, caught himself doing it once or twice, even–judging a son by his father, watching a young man achieve something and turning around to put praise on his upbringing. He knew that was how the world worked, and Alexander knew it, too.

Still, his son wouldn't be lost to war. Not as long as George was there to keep him safe, and if he had to drag the boy back to Virginia himself, kicking and screaming.

"I understand your desire," he said, matching his son's volume. "But I cannot allow you to throw your life away like this, Alexander. You could do so many great things if you just lived to see the day."

Alex furrowed his brow, and his upper lip stiffened in frustration. "You can't just send me home like a scolded child. I'm a soldier, I'm a _Captain,_ and you will need more sound reasoning to dismiss me than 'I'm your father and you'll do as I say'."

George raised an eyebrow. "But I _have_ sound reasoning: I am your commander in chief, and you'll do as I say."

The noise Alexander made in the back of his throat reminded him of one a defensive bear-cub might make. He balled his fists tight enough his knuckles appeared white, and George thought he saw his leg twitch like he fought the urge to stomp his foot.

"This cause is important to me, Father, as it surely is to you. I want to do my part. This is not about me striving for some kind of glory."

Wasn't it? George had a hard time believing that. Alexander had done a fair share of reckless and stupid things on the field in the relatively short time of his service–impressive feats, no doubt, feats that were talked about, feats that attracted attention.

Feats that earned him respect from his peers and higher-ranking officers alike.

Even if he hadn't done those things for the glory of them, there was a glaring inconsistency in that claim: Both General Knox and General Greene had made him offers to join their staff. He could do way more behind a desk, as an aide to a General than he could in the field as a Captain.

If he truly wanted to help, George would give him an ultimatum.

"You want to help the cause, then?" he said and straightened up, resumed a position fit for a commander and shoved the upset father into the far corners of his mind. He could deal with that later.

Alexander noticed the shift and went along; he stood at attention and schooled his features into something stoic.

George couldn't help but think of Jacky and Alex when they had been children, playing soldiers. He forced that image away before he hurt himself.

"Yes, Sir," he said.

George nodded, watched his face carefully when he next spoke. "Then join my staff."

Alexander stiffened beyond what was required for standing at attention and attempted to keep his face neutral, but the displeased curl of his lips betrayed him.

"Father-"

"If you want to do your part, Captain Hamilton," the title tasted odd on his tongue, sour and off. "You can do far more for this war, for our men, from behind a desk; even if there is less glory in it, but you said yourself that's not what you're after."

Alexander narrowed his eyes but didn't interrupt.

"You must know the state of this army. Congress promises something and gives us half, when we're lucky, but usually it's barely even a third of what we need. I know your abilities, far better than Knox and Greene do, and I need someone like you at my side, Alexander."

Alex pressed his lips together, cast his gaze to the ground–the first time he had broken the eye-contact since he'd come in. George was oddly comforted by that simple action; his son didn’t feel as though he had to prove he could brace his anger, he let himself let his guard down, certain that he wouldn’t make a sudden move while his attention was elsewhere.

"You think I could be of use?"

George bit back the sigh of relief that threatened to slip past his lips and nodded.

"I know you could." And more importantly, he would be _safe._

"If I were to agree–it would be a challenge, Pa. Us working together in close quarters, it would be easy to slip up."

George arched a brow and kept cool, but on the inside he was brimming with relief, the feeling overwhelming enough his eyes burned with the beginnings of tears. Alex considered it, and if he wanted to stay, he _would_ take the offer. The only alternative George would allow was Virginia.

"You like challenges," he said, and Alex's lips quirked into a half-smile.

"I guess so."

"Your answer?" 

Alexander took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, dark eyes– _his own eyes_ –sparking up at him, ablaze with determination.

"It would be an honour, Sir."

George allowed himself a bit of a smile at that and offered his hand, which Alexander clasped without hesitation.

"Welcome on board, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton," were the words he said, but his true meaning was more along the lines of _I will keep you safe if it costs me my life, I will protect you until there's nothing left you'd need protecting from, I will make sure you come out of this unharmed and healthy and well._

His son flashed him the first real, full smile of their encounter, and George held on a little tighter and resisted the urge to haul him into an embrace and never let go.

* * *

Alexander put down the correspondence he had been reading–he had been at it for hours now, intent on getting through the most recent letters to familiarise himself with their situation–and turned to him, an excited glint to his eyes.

“I have some friends!” he said, and George tried to ignore how proud he sounded. Alex was just a child, a child who had only now figured out how to make real friends, and he had thrown himself into a war.

“Laurens, Mulligan, and Lafayette. He’s a Marquis. I think they could help, they are brilliant.”

Well, hadn’t George just recently lamented over the fact he needed to hire more people? He might as well indulge his son and let him bring his friends if it made him happy.

* * *

The bunch of very loud young men Alexander had dragged along with him turned out to indeed have just what they needed, even though George was fairly sure Alex had picked them up somewhere at a street-corner or in a dingy pub.

Mulligan was a tailor and offered himself up as a spy, which was something George had been meaning to do for a long time, so they started preparations for that.

Lafayette had a disposition for tactics and strategy, and George thought that in time, and with a bit of improvement to his english, he would be tempted to give the lad a command despite his youth and relative inexperience.

Laurens was hardworking, a bit impulsive at times, opinionated but loyal to a fault–and he was a problem.

George wasn’t blind. He could see the positively smitten look his son got whenever the boy was around, and he could see how Laurens looked at Alexander, like he had hung all the stars in the sky; and he did not like it one bit.

He could be wrong, of course. But the way they always seemed to be touching one way or the other did not lie–George would have to keep an eye on that. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it. Yet.

He had already failed to protect one of his children, and he wouldn’t fail another one. Alexander would come out of this war alive. Laurens, on the other hand, was not his problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little does Washington know that a year down the timeline, he will have gone from "Laurens can choke" to "the only person who is allowed to maim John is ME" we love character development.
> 
> (I also have a [Tumblr](http://binch-i-might-be.tumblr.com) you can yell at me on, lol)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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